


A Brief History

by calamari_from_beyond



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Family Feels, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, YES.... even manny the headless manhorse, ducktales has a ton of characters and it's fun to write for literally all of them, i know that technically DW's name is jim here but it’s a story that’s completely drakepad in spirit, jimpad is dead in canon and i’m the one who buried it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-09-15 12:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamari_from_beyond/pseuds/calamari_from_beyond
Summary: In order to make Launchpad’s birthday the best he’s ever had, the kids seek out an old familiar face to attend. But, as they go digging, they discover that Launchpad might already have an untold past with him. (Writing started before/takes place in a different universe than “The Duck Knight Rises”.)





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> I know Launchpad's birthday is in September but chronologically, this takes place some time before the Christmas special.

“Balloons?”

“Check.”

“Cake?”

“Marble... with a tiny plane drawn on the top in red frosting!”

“Cute. Invitations?”

Webby finally glanced up from her notebook. “Everyone that lives here got one and should be coming,” she answered, before handing it off to Dewey.

For the past half-hour or so, the kids had been planning a birthday party for their driver; lounging on bean-bag chairs, feverishly jotting ideas down on the whiteboard in front of them and constructing a checklist from scratch.

Not many people would think to put so much effort or time or thought into something as mundane celebrating an employee’s birthday but by all accounts, Webby and the triplets considered Launchpad McQuack as part of the family. He went on all the adventures (although he was hired to be the transportation for them) and he did technically live at the mansion, after all.

And… the guy was sweet! And... loyal. And pure of heart. There was an obligation by everyone in the mansion (even including Scrooge) to make sure Launchpad had a day to know how much they all appreciated having him around.

Dewey frowned as he realized there wasn’t even half a page of guests. “Huh?! There’s gotta be more people coming than this,” he stated, flipping the pages back and forth in disbelief. “I mean… right? Doesn’t Launchpad have a family? Or friends… outside of us?”

The three other kids exchanged glances before simultaneously shrugging. Webby wrung her hands absentmindedly. “He doesn’t really talk about his biological family, like ever, for some reason. And believe me, I’ve done my fair share of prying.”

Before he knew it, Dewey started pacing in an attempt to jog his memory. Launchpad was always gushing about something or someone, with or without a listening audience- but most of the time, it seemed, he only talked about Scrooge. Or one of them. Perhaps it was bad on Dewey’s part that he couldn’t recall most of Launchpad’s conversations that didn’t revolve around something that interested him personally. Launchpad did consider him to be his best friend, after all.

But seemingly out of nowhere, an idea with the force of a thousand Sunchasers crashing hit him and he stopped in his tracks, grin overtaking his face.

“What about that hero guy he likes so much?” he suggested.

 _“Darkwing Duck?”_ Webby asked incredulously.

“Yeah… yeah that’ll work!” Dewey then turned his attention to the whiteboard. Uncapping a red marker, he scratched out all the prior party plans and replaced them with a haphazard doodle of the caped mallard himself.

“Scrap the balloons. Scrap the cake. A Darkwing Duck-themed party… with the actor showing up in-costume! It’ll be great!”

He swerved around to his siblings and surveyed each of their faces, expecting to be met with uproarious applause (or at least some indication of excitement), but his face soured when he just saw blank expressions mixed with confusion.

Louie was the first to speak up. “Are you sure we can’t just… get him some vintage thingy from off the web with Darkwing’s face on it and call it a day? Do we really gotta get the _real guy_ here?”

“He’s right,” Hewey stated. “Those actor types have crazy-expensive rates, and likely won’t be covered by the budget allotted to us by Uncle Scrooge.” He held up a ten dollar bill and grimaced.

Dewey looked to Webby for any kind of backup, who was avoiding eye-contact and awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck. “I… I mean, it does sound nice... in theory,” she offered weakly.

Deflated by the lack of support for his spur-of-the-moment idea, Dewey pinched the bridge of his beak. They had been everywhere on adventures, from the seas to the skies, and they were too reluctant to track a guy down just to talk to him?

“Come on, you guys,” he pleaded. “Imagine the look on Launchpad’s face when he sees his idol walk through the door!” The others seemed to ponder this as Dewey continued on. “And besides! Think of all the things Launchpad has done for us, like… like taking us anywhere we wanna go when we ask him to-”

“You mean, like, what he’s supposed to do for his job?”

Dewey shot Louie a dirty look. “You know what I mean.”

Webby shifted around in her bean bag chair. “I think Launchpad deserves at least a try,” she admitted.

Dewey fist-pumped in victory and pointed his index finger in her face. “ _Yes!_ One down, two to go!” he cheered, before staring down his other siblings.

Both Huey and Louie made eye contact and sighed.

“Business has been slow as of late, so I guess I got time,” Louie said.

“As long as we make it back by dinner time,” Huey firmly stated.

With everyone now on board, it was time to enter the action stage of the plan. Dewey turned on his heels. “Webby, you try and find the guy’s-”

“Already on it and already found it! Sorta. I think. It’s from a few years back, but it looks like it’s still in use.” She read off the address to the triplets.

“He lives in St. Canard? Ohhhh no, Uncle Donald’s definitely not gonna like that,” Huey remarked.

It was hard to believe that after every Scrooge-related escapade, Donald’s biggest opposition would be for his kids to visit a town that was mildly sketchy, but Dewey went along with it.

“So we don’t tell Uncle Donald! Uh-duh! We can make it a surprise for everyone, including Mrs. Beakley and Uncle Scrooge!” he proposed. His siblings seemed to become a bit weary again as both Huey and Louie stood up and crowded around him.

“How are we supposed to get there, exactly?” Huey questioned. He began counting off with his fingers. “No Launchpad, no parentals, and- I think we’re still banned from taking the bus after that one time.”

Possible candidates bounced around Dewey’s brain. “I might know a place we could try,” he stated vaguely.

Louie shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket and huffed. “So we’re really just gonna track this guy down, show up at his place unannounced and ask him _politely_ to come attend a stranger’s birthday party, for free?”

“I mean, yeah?” Dewey answered without a hitch. “More unbelievable stuff has happened to us before.”

This sentiment was one they all could accept, as a wave of murmured agreements filled the room. 

 

* * *

 

 

The replacement lab, generously gifted to Scrooge’s team of inventors by Mr. Money Bin himself, was appearing more to be a conference room with blueprints and sticky notes slapped onto the walls. It was a bit snug as well, with the massive mahogany table taking up about 75% of the room’s space.

Gizmoduck was on the opposite side of the table, attempting to slice a metal fold-up chair in half with his hand-turned-razor blade. Hewey waved excitedly at the hero, but to his dismay, Gizmoduck seemed too preoccupied to really notice.

Both Gyro and Manny stood together, with Gyro unloading a pile of paper about two and a half feet tall into his arms. “Don’t forget to put them in alphabetical order,” he chided, before going back to the papers on his clipboard.

“Hey, Dr. Gearloose!”

The exclamation made Gyro look up from his clipboard. “Oh, goodie. Who forgot to secure the door so the little color-coordinated nephews couldn’t get in?”

The kids looked back to the door they had gone through. Resting beside it was an untouched broom. Gyro shot a disapproving glance towards Manny, who, in turn, clopped sadly to the corner of the room.

He turned his attention back to the children. “What do you want?”

“We need a ride to St. Canard, pronto,” Dewey said, with the others nodding behind him in agreement.

Gyro’s eyes widened, before he threw his head back with a cackle. “Oh, you naive kids, you. I’m not your personal bus driver! I have work to be done, tests to be conducted…” He paused before crossing something out on one of his papers. “...Morality chips to dismantle. I have no time for unscheduled dilly-dallying!”

“But it’s important!” Webby insisted, balling her fists.

“Hmm? Important enough to disrupt a productive day of earth-shattering scientific inquiry?” the inventor pondered, knowingly standing in front of blueprints of toasters with legs taped behind him. “And don’t you children already _have_ a chauffeur? You know… red-haired, muscular, cobwebs-for-brains…? Ring any bells?”

Four different answers came from the four kids, all at once and all indistinguishable from one another:

“He’s off today.”

“He’s washing the plane.”

“He’s on vacation.”

“Getting his wisdom teeth out!”

Gyro raised an eyebrow at this. He wasn’t amused, to say the least.

Dewey let out a sigh. He knew Gyro wasn’t the most amiable guy at the mansion, so it was unlikely that he’d care enough to spill the beans anyways. All he knew was that they had to get a ride somehow.

“Okay…” he started. “Don’t tell Scrooge, but… we’re trying to get Jim Starling to come to Launchpad’s birthday party.”

Gyro’s beak retracted into a sneer. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“ _Jim Starling?!_ ” The shrill cry startled everyone else in the conference room. Concentration completely pulled away from cutting metal, Gizmoduck now locked eyes with Dewey, anxiously knocking into chairs tucked into the table as he wheeled his way over to them.

“I-I can assist you kids!” he sputtered out enthusiastically.

Gyro scowled at him. “No, _you cannot_ , Cab- er, Gizmoduck,” he corrected.

Gizmoduck looked from the kids, to Gyro, to back at the kids, looking as nervous as ever. Without much thought, he grabbed Gyro by arm and gently dragged him to the nearest corner of the makeshift lab. He huddled close to the other inventor.

“Dr. Gearloose, I think this would be the perfect opportunity to test out the… the, uh, propeller function! For long distance travelling!” he asserted in a hushed tone. Thoroughly annoyed, Gyro yanked his arm out of Gizmoduck’s grasp.

“We have work to do, Cabrera!”

“This is testing, though! It's a massively important part of the scientific process! You can’t truly get the scope of how well the propellers work flying over the same couple of skyscrapers in Duckburg.”

His mouth opened to argue some more but the words didn’t leave his mouth as he began to consider this. He glanced back at Webby and the triplets, who more than most likely could hear every word of their ‘secret’ conversation. Knowing fully well how adamant Fenton was and how continuing the squabble would only be a bigger waste of his time, Gyro rolled his eyes.

“Alright. Fine. Conduct the test.” A wide, contagious smile broke out on Gizmoduck’s face as he pulled Gyro into a sudden and crushing embrace.

“Really?! Oh, thank-you Dr. Gearloose!” he shouted out.

Gyro yelped at the sudden gesture and squirmed uncomfortably in his clutches. “Let go of me at once! You’re killing me with your… robot strength!”

Releasing him immediately with a quick embarrassed apology, Gizmoduck scooped up each of the kids in his arms with one fell swoop.

“I won’t let you down!” he proclaimed.

Gyro waved them off. “Just go already. Be back before my next break ends.”

As Gizmoduck wheeled himself into the elevator on a course for the top floor balcony, Webby and the triplets seemed a tad uncomfortable, as they were all squished together in his arms.

“You know, we could have walked to the roof with you,” Dewey said.

“The longer these big metal slabs are in this position, the more likely they’ll lock into place. It’s a safety thing. Wouldn’t want ol’ rightie to stop functioning and drop two of you into the bay, now would you?” Gizmoduck laughed, indicating he was joking, but all of the children stayed awkwardly silent except for Huey, who forced a fake laugh for his approval.

He quickly changed the subject. “This may come as a surprise to you kids, but back in the day, I was quite the Darkwing Duck fan!” he explained. “I collected the comics, the special edition box sets, the pogs…”

The kids blinked in unison. “The _what_ now?”

The elevator dinged and opened its’ doors, revealing a long winding carpet and a series of doors (practically identical to any other floor in the mansion) with a balcony visible near the end of the hallway. Gizmoduck lurched forward.

“I really hope you do get him to come to the party,” he stated. “I think it’d mean a lot to Launchpad! Er, not that I know him personally. Seems like a nice fellow, based on limited encounters.”

Dewey held back a sarcastic comment, as he knew that Fenton was really committed to the whole ‘secret identity’ shtick. If the others found what Gizmoduck was saying to be suspicious at all, they didn’t show any indication of it. The focus seemed to now be on the view of Duckburg looming in the distance, from the small balcony the group was perched on. Within seconds, large propellers unfolded themselves from the top of Gizmoduck’s helmet. Loud mechanical whirring noises erupted from the suit, as if it were struggling function properly.

He peered down at the children, their reflections staring back at them in the glare of his big clunky visor. “Are you ready?”

Louie blinked, while the others looked ahead. “You sure this is safe?” he asked.

Gizmoduck snorted. “I’d approximate it’s about as safe to ride with me as it is to ride with that pilot of yours. Now, hold on tight!”

And with that, Gizmoduck and the kids took to the skies.

 

* * *

 

 

By all accounts, Jim Starling’s living situation was not at all what any of the kids had envisioned it to be.

Each of the kids had their own specialized take on what the residence of a famous actor would look like, but a few aspects of their imaginations were the same: big mansion, nice car, gated community. Typical ‘rich people’ stuff that the triplets themselves had become acquainted to ever since meeting Scrooge.

But, strangely, Jim Starling had none of those things.

The house he lived in was sandwiched between two plain old suburban homes in a plain old suburban neighborhood, with no special differentiation separating his house from the others (except for the coat of paint it had). White picket fences were the only barrier of entry. There was a regular-looking blue Volkswagen parked off to the side, next to a motorcycle and a rusting pink bike. Sports equipment such as roller-skates and tennis balls littered the otherwise well-kept yard.

Huey voiced what all three of the triplets were wondering. “Are you... sure you wrote down the right address?”

Peering past Gizmoduck’s plated chest, Webby’s face was illuminated by the faint glow of her phone. “Yes! I’m sure!” she exclaimed, showing off the screen in demonstration. “See? It’s right there, number three in the search results.”

“Well… if this is the correct address, then…” Gizmoduck lowered his arms to the ground, allowing for each kid to get their footing before straightening back up. “Oh! And before I forget…”

He unlatched one of the smaller rectangular metal plates that seemed glued magnetically to his suit, timidly rubbing its’ edges.

“C-could you get Mr. Starling to sign this for me, if it’s not too much to ask?” Before anyone else could think to respond, Huey jumped up and waved his hand in the air.

“Oooh! I can do that! Anything for you, Gizmoduck!” he exclaimed.

Gizmoduck hummed contentedly, before handing the piece off to Huey.

“You kids just give me a holler when you need me again, and I’ll be here in a split!” This seemed to trigger a reaction from his suit, as the middle section of metal pulled apart and began shooting out brown banana peels. He was hurled backwards before his top propellers suddenly activated and yanked him upwards, out of sight. The kids stayed, craning their necks to the sky.

“Did he give us his number?” Huey asked in bewilderment.

“He didn’t give us his number,” Louie answered flatly.

“Are… are we supposed to yell for him at the sky?”

All of their Gizmoduck-related qualms came to a stand-still as they all trudged up the driveway and approached the actor’s front door.

Huey slowly pressed the doorbell with the hand that wasn’t holding the metal piece.

There was a bout of silence.

He looked at the others curiously before ringing again.

This time, however, there was an immediate rustling coming from inside.

 _“Sheesh, sheesh, alright already! I heard you the first time!”_   The boisterous clattering of bolts unlocking and the sudden unveiling of the actor startled each of the kids. Welp… at least they could confirm that it was indeed Jim Starling’s place.

Jim was frowning, likely out of annoyance of the disturbance, and donned a silky maroon robe. An oven mitt covered the hand he used to open the door. He looked slightly older from the TV show, Dewey noted, with more noticeable creases on his forehead and darker bags under his eyes. But then again, Dewey had seen very little of the actual show where Darkwing was unmasked, so it really was hard to tell for sure.

“What in the-?!” He looked around, confused, before glancing down and processing the scene before him.

“...Oh. Children. Isn’t it a little late be going door to door, selling… what…? Chocolate? Cookies?” He scrutinized Huey in particular. “Handing out pamphlets for organized religion? The whole ‘color coordination’ thing is cute but I can’t for the life of me tell what association you’re apart of.”

“Mr. Starling! Hey!” Dewey wormed his way to the front and held out his hand. “Dewey Duck. I’ve seen about half an episode of your TV show and listened to the outro about fifty times. Big fan.”

Jim reluctantly shook his hand with the oven mitt before resting against the door frame, arms crossed. “A… a _fan?_ ” There was something to his tone that almost sounded pleasantly surprised. “Well… I’m always happy to meet a fan… of course! Always happy to meet one of my many, many fans.”

He surveyed the group of children huddled on his driveway once again.

“But… what do you want? A signed head-shot?” he asked. “My rate will probably be higher because you’re at my doorstep at night, but if it’ll appease you…”

Webby stepped forward. “Actually, Mr. Starling, we were hoping you could attend our friend’s birthday party. He’s been your biggest fan for quite some time now and it would really mean a lot to him if you could come!”

“ _Birthday party?_ ” Jim repeated, uncrossing his arms. “For some kid? No, no. Jim Starling does not do _birthday parties._ I didn’t get my bachelor’s in theater arts and be nominated for several Daytime Webby awards to be touted around like some sort of… some sort of _clown!_ ”

He looked pensive for a moment. “...You could ask Micheal if he’s up for it. Since, you know, he played the actual clown.”

Feeling like no progress was being made, Dewey trudged forward, throwing out everything in an attempt to convince Jim to come. “But he doesn’t want the clown guy, he wants you! You’re the one who inspired him to be who he is! You’re his hero!” he cried.

A warmed expression crossed Jim’s face for a brief moment and he put his mitt-covered hand over his heart in sympathy. “That’s touching,” he admitted. “Sincerely, it is. I love my fans! But I can’t just come out of retirement to appease a child with theatrics. I live a regular schmoe life, now- well, aside from the occasional convention appearance, but- that doesn’t count! I mow my lawn! I have a daughter! I’ve got royalty checks to cash! And… oh, I still have roast in the oven, so we should really wrap this up soon.”

Opening his mouth to say something in retaliation, Dewey found himself being cut off by Louie.

“Allow me. Mr. Starling, money is no object here.” He whipped a wallet thick with cash from out of his hoodie pocket. His siblings, as well as Jim himself, looked on in slight confusion, before Huey voiced the realization.

“Is… is that Uncle Scrooge’s wallet?!” he exclaimed, only to be met with Louie’s nervous grin.

“I thought it would come in handy if the robot guy broke down and we had to take a bus or something,” he confessed.

“We’re banned from taking the- _ugh,_ just give it here,” Huey reprimanded, before snatching the wallet away from his triplet.

Still sympathetic to their cause, Jim’s face brightened up with an idea. “Say… how about I give you children an 8-by-10, on the house?” He pulled out a glossy photo of himself from seemingly nowhere, as if he carried them around on his person.

“Who do I make this out for, again?”

Defeated, the kids exchanged saddened looks.

“Launchpad McQuack,” Dewey said after a few beats of reluctant silence.

This seemed to immediately evoke a reaction from Jim as he froze up.

“Launchpad?” He sounded unusually tense. Something flashed in his eyes (as to what, Dewey couldn’t say) and he looked up from the photo. “What… how do you know Launchpad? Who are you affiliated with?”

Webby and the triplets eyed each other, bewildered.

Dewey was the one to answer. “He’s our Uncle’s chauffeur.”

Relief seemed to wash over Jim. “Oh. You’re McDuck’s kids.”

In an instant, the children became fully cognizant of the situation they were in. That certainly didn’t make it any less baffling. “Wait, you know Launchpad?! And... us?!” Dewey bellowed out. He approached Jim cautiously. “How? When? Why?!”

Jim seemed a bit dazed by the situation himself, as it took him a second to register the questions being bombarded at him.

“I-”

A high-pitched beeping came from inside the house, effectively interrupting Jim.

He let out a sigh, before waving them in.

“...Alright. Just… come inside already.” And with that, he disappeared back into the dimly lit living room, making a beeline straight for the kitchen.

There wasn’t any time for the kids to ponder amongst themselves what was going on as they did what Jim asked, but Dewey felt deep in his gut like they may have stumbled into something very, _very_  peculiar.


	2. The Revelation

**_/ BEFORE… /_ **

 

Thirty minutes.

Jim had gone thirty minutes without anyone stopping by his table, not even for a picture or an autograph or a simple how-do-you-do, but _just to make some measly conversation_ about talk of a potential “Darkwing Duck” reboot. That he was not affiliated with. That _his_ part was likely being re-casted for.

It made his blood boil, just the thought of anyone replacing him and tainting his legacy, which was bound to happen because he was the one and only Darkwing Duck!

Did people just not appreciate the classics anymore? If the show was truly popular enough to prompt a revival, where were all his adoring fans? People showering him with free gifts and fanart?

And it certainly didn’t help that he could see Tim Costly from his table with a line wrapped around the isle. Of course he attracted so many convention-goers. The no-good, can’t-improv-his-way-out-of-a-paper-bag talentless hack that was one of the names being thrown around to replace him. For a hot second, Jim wondered if they had intentionally placed his table across the row from Tim’s in an attempt to get him seething.

Well. It worked.

It also didn’t help that the large convention center had been sweltering ( _gee,_ you think they’d treat their famous guests with a little air conditioning in the middle of June). Crowds of eager comic-consuming cosplayers lined the vendor set-ups, eager to shove fist-fulls of money at an array of expensive vintage collectibles.

There was a decent turnout of costumed and casual guests, just not the kind of turnout that would give Jim’s booth any traction. And that was fine. Jim was fine with that. He was being paid to be there, anyways. It was more beneficial to earn 12 bucks an hour taking a nap than talking to obsessive fans about animation errors, he decided.

And that was the end of being angry. He allowed himself to let go, for the time being, and enjoy some peace and quiet. His eyelids grew heavy as he felt himself starting to nod off, head still propped up in his hand.

Tiny hands took a hold of his shoulder and began to lightly shake him. “Dad…? Dad!”

He was jostled into full consciousness. “-Huh? What?” Looking to his right, he was greeted by his daughter peering up at him with big glassy doe eyes. A white paper gift bag sat precariously in her lap.

“Can I have some money for the vending machine?” she asked, her voice unusually soft.

Jim raised an eyebrow, instantly suspicious. “What happened to the ten dollars I gave you?”

“I used it to buy this!” She stuck her hand into the white bag and dug out a mug, proudly displaying an airbrushed illustration of Gizmoduck smiling and giving a thumbs up. “It’s Gizmoduck! You know, that cool guy who stops bank robberies and helps folks in Duckburg.”

Gosalyn delicately placed it in her dad’s grasp. Jim sighed before putting it down, sour expression crossing his features. “I know who it is, Gos,” he replied, dully.

“He’s pretty popular here!” she said. Her statement was indeed supported by the surplus amount of T-shirts and cosplays Jim saw around the convention. “And, you know, given your whole ‘thing’ for superheroes, I got it just for you!”

It took everything within Jim to not shoot a sarcastic reply her way.

“So, can I _pleeeaaaase_ have some cash, dad? I’m super thirsty and you wouldn’t want me to pass out from dehydration or anything…”

“Don’t you play that card with me, young lady,” Jim retorted, fishing a five dollar bill out of his pocket. He placed it in her expectant hands. “Here. But come right back, okay? No sneaking into panels you’re not invited to this time.”

She grinned before excitedly leaping over the table, causing the display with all of his headshots and prices to rattle.

“Hey! Be careful!” he chided, hurriedly adjusting the photos in the display back to the way they were.

“You got it, dad! I’ll be back before the next person comes to our table!”

There wasn’t any time to reflect on how that could mean anywhere from her being gone for five minutes to three hours. He watched as Gosalyn sped off, disappearing around the corner.

As to be expected, traffic for his booth did not magically change the instant his daughter left. Bored out of his wits, everything around him slowly bled into the background.

And then he laid eyes on the Gizmoduck mug. The gears in his brain began to turn.

Superheroes garnered all kinds of attention on social media, right?

Jim didn’t have any accounts on anything, as that was more of Gosalyn’s style (and he himself was still adjusting to how quickly technology was changing), but that seemed to be the case as far as he could tell. And this Gizmoduck guy had only been around in the public eye for a couple of months now, yet his face was plastered on everything and everyone adored him!

_If Duckburg could have it’s own hometown crime-fighter, then what was stopping St. Canard from having-_

The light buzzing of his phone cut the scheming short.

He fumbled for his phone and opened up his messages. It was from Gosalyn:

**DAD lookat this!**

Attached to the text was a blurry (albeit clear enough to make out) photo of a heavy-built man wearing what appeared to be a homemade rendition of the Darkwing Duck costume, haphazardly sewn together with visible stitches unraveling at the seams. The iconic hat was off his head, revealing bright red hair, as he used it to fan himself. He looked away from the camera, head tilted off to the side as he rested against the wall.

It did not appear as though the picture was taken with the man’s permission.

Before Jim could ask her anything, the phone vibrated again.

**COOL, HUH?! i saw him just hangin out by the water fountain and went over to say that i liked his cosplay. i asked him if he had gone over to see u yet and he said no! heres a better pic**

The photo sent featured Gosalyn with half of her face cropped off, sitting next to the cosplayer and pointing at him with her thumb. The man, in turn, offered up an extremely nervous smile held his hand up in a shy wave.

Getting a more in-focus picture, there was something vaguely familiar about the guy, but Jim couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Perhaps he had seen him at the grocery store, once? Or gone to school with him?

But, nonetheless. Jim typed out a response just as quickly as possible for a technologically-inept dad in his forties.

**GOS. Don’t talk to strangers please!!!!!!**

A full two agonizing minutes without a response. Jim was considering abandoning his table to go and find her when she replied back:

**i kno dad but hes really nice! i wanna see if i can get him over to our table so u can talk to him too!**

Jim audibly mumbled at this, but he sent back a simple text in agreement.

**Fine. Bring him over here.**

Soon enough, he spotted his daughter turn the corner, leading the man from the pictures by the hand over to their station.

Once the cosplayer made eye-contact with him, however, he stopped dead in his tracks. Jim offered him a weak smile but that didn’t seem to help at all. He looked rigid and tried to pull away from Gosalyn, but Gosalyn kept her grip on his hand.

Jim couldn’t decipher what she said to him as they were still a decent distance away and it was hard to hear over the clamour of the convention-goers, but whatever she had told him, it seemed to be enough to convince him to keep going as he nodded and let himself be dragged closer.

The two eventually approached the booth. Gosalyn nudged him forward, encouragingly. “Launchpad, this is my dad! Dad, this is-”

Without warning, the man toppled over and took the table’s entire display down with him.

“...Launchpad.”

* * *

 

**_| NOW… |_ **

 

Almost numb to their current circumstances, Dewey, Huey, Louie and Webby found themselves sitting silently on an old-school actor’s worn sofa. In the middle of said actor’s living room. While said actor was preparing dinner in the next room over.

“Don’t touch any of my trophies or the case they’re in,” they heard Jim call out from the kitchen. “I’ll know.”

And they obeyed that command. They didn’t touch, but the _certainly_ looked.

There was a lot to observe in Jim Starling’s house. The aforementioned trophies were indeed set up in a display case, noticeably placed in order of size on each shelf (shortest to tallest, from left to right). Some trophies did look like legitimate television awards, silver and sparkling, while most of the others appeared to be sports-related. Dewey even thought he identified a couple of cheap plasticy “#1 Dad” cups thrown into the mix.

The rest of the living room consisted of the regular set-up: a TV, a coffee table, a bookshelf and a handful of framed pictures on the wall. The majority of them were of Jim and a little red-haired duckling that Dewey presumed to be his daughter.

Everything else in the house, from what he could see, was unusually clean. Like the weird, no-one-actually-lives-here kind of clean that you would see in commercials for air fresheners or something. But Dewey supposed he could chalk that up to Jim being a bit of a neat-freak, an assumption that wouldn’t be too wild based on his first impression.

Louie let out an awkward cough to cut through the silence, causing the three other kids to stare at him. “It’s a pretty nice place,” he insisted. “Very… normal.”

The rustling of kitchen doors opening behind them terminated any discussion Louie was trying to attempt. Jim hummed as came out, drying his hands on a dishtowel.

His pleasant expression soured a bit once he saw the children seated on his couch, as if he had forgotten they were there. “...Well. I guess you lot are guests here, for the time being,” he declared, throwing the towel over his shoulder.

“My roast is out and ready but the rolls need to be in for another couple of minutes. I was anticipating on cooking for just me and my daughter tonight, but adding in four more mouths to feed I might not have enough. Just a forewarning.”

Stay for dinner…? The “going to see a movie” excuse they provided to Beakley and Donald could buy them about an hour or two, but not much longer. They had to use their time wisely, Dewey determined. He couldn’t tell what the others were thinking, but Huey answered none the less.

“That’s okay! Thank-you, Mr. Starling,” he replied.

Jim examined each of the sibling’s faces once more before collapsing into his recliner, adjacent to the coffee table. “Alright. I guess we can talk about this now.”

Without warning, Webby jumped up on his chair’s armrest. “What’s your relationship to Launchpad? How did you two meet each other? Ohh, let me guess- college buddies? Long lost cousins, second-removed?”

He stared blankly back at her for a moment, before letting a smile overtake his expression. He gave her a gentle pat on the head, chuckling.

“I like your spirit, kid! But no. Neither of those,” he explained. “We first met each other at a comic convention. Guy was so nervous that he approached my booth and fainted! He was taken out on a stretcher before he even got a chance to talk to me. And then we met again when he rear-ended me with that limo he drives around in. And then another time- We just… ran into one another at a store. Yeah. There really were no hard feelings about the accident since all the damages were paid for and nobody got hurt. From there, we- are… are you recording me?”

Jim’s exposition grinded to a halt once he noticed Webby with her phone out and an app with a big blue microphone being displayed. The other kids eyed her, slightly annoyed by the interruption. The phone slipped out of her fingers into her lap.

Her face had gone completely red. “Sorry! I usually like to keep tabs on information like this. I can stop if you want me to, though.”

“No, no! It’s alright, I was just wondering. As I was saying, Launchpad and I just… hit it off, I suppose! Since then I’ve only seen him a few times. As you may have noticed, it’s quite the trip to travel between Duckburg and St. Canard. Plus, he’s got quite the schedule with McDuck! Yep, yep, yep,” he assured, leaning back in his recliner.

Dewey was unable to gauge the others’ reactions, but there was something that felt… off, about what Jim was saying. Aside from the logistics behind it not quite making sense, his story most definitely felt forced at parts.

He narrowed his eyes. “If you guys are such good friends, how come he never talks about you to any of us?”

Jim already seemed to think ahead on that one as he answered without a beat.

“We haven’t been ‘friends’ for that long,” he replied. “That incident with us running into each other happened about a month or so ago. And we’ve been just… rolling with it, ever since!”

Jim’s eyes widened and he slapped his forehead. “Oh! The rolls!”

He jumped to his feet once more, gathering the dish rag in his hands.

“...I’ll be right back,” he told the children, before disappearing once more into the kitchen.

With Jim out of the room once more, the group loosened up a little.

“So since he’s already friends with Launchpad, he’ll definitely come to the party! Right?” Huey offered up. He glanced at his siblings for reassurance. “...Right?”

“There’s something really fishy about this whole thing,” Dewey announced, slipping off the couch. “It’s _Launchpad._ He wouldn’t ever stop talking about it if he really became buddy-buddy with the real-life Darkwing Duck.”

He began to pace in a rectangular path around the coffee table while the others eyed him anxiously.

“Dewey,” Huey started, exasperated. “We’re getting the man to go to the party, remember? Our one goal of coming here? Let’s try not to go into conspiracy mode, okay?”

Dewey furrowed his brows. “No, no, I _know_ that. But aren’t you the least bit curious as to why Launchpad wouldn’t mention being friends with him to us? Or… me? I’m his best friend, so he’d definitely at least tell me.”

“He _was_ leaving stuff out as he was talking,” Louie added. “Trust me. I’m an expert, and he showed all the telltale signs.”

Webby frowned, looking down at the recordings on her phone. “But… why would Mr. Starling lie about his relationship with Launchpad?”

Dewey paused in front of the foot of the stairs and craned his neck to see the second floor. Huey could sense a bad idea brewing.

“So he has a life outside of the mansion!” he exclaimed. “Big deal! He doesn’t have to tell us every single thing about his personal-”

“Cover for me. If he comes back while I’m gone, one of you needs to pretend to be me.”

Emulating a move he saw on a TV show once, Dewey dramatically crouched down and sea-salted his way towards the base of the bannister. He then switched to a crawling position.

“...Louie, you pretend to be me,” he commanded before scrambling up the stairs.

“ _Dewey!_ ” Huey hissed, fumbling for the handbook in his hat. “The Junior Woodchuck Guidebook says that all house guests should abide by-”

“Can’t hear you! Already outta earshot!”

Once on the second floor, Dewey observed a narrow hallway with several white doors. The only one that was marked was the one right in front of him, which proudly displayed a picture of a skull and crossbones taped to the center. If he strained hard enough, he swore he could hear the faint beat of hip-hop music and slight slurping of a soft drink from inside.

Probably best to avoid that room, he thought.

Careful not to make much noise, he slowly continued on to the next door.

Steadily rising to his feet, he grabbed hold of the doorknob and peered inside.

He was greeted with a plain yet tidy bedroom that appeared to be lived-in, as the covers on the bed were ever so slightly disturbed and there was a pile of clothing stacked on top of the sole chair in the room. This was as good a start as he could get.

Dewey wormed his way in (making sure to shut the door behind him) before he began his meticulous comb-through of Jim’s supposed bedroom, looking for anything that stood out to him at all.

Nothing was on the nightstand except for a half-empty pill bottle, a lamp and an alarm clock, set five minutes ahead. He checked inside the only drawer and found nothing but an unused notepad, a couple of weird little square-shaped foil packages (moist towelettes, Dewey could only guess) and a bunch of receipts for Hamburger Hippo clipped together in a neat bundle. He strayed away from the nightstand and leaned down to peer under the bed.

Again, nothing.

“Come on, Dew. If you were hiding a deep dark treacherous secret, where would you keep any evidence of aforementioned deep dark treacherous secret?”

Then he noticed something atop the pile of clothing perched on the chair.

A large brown jacket. A _pilot_ jacket, Dewey noted with interest.

Upon closer inspection, there were hot sauce stains caked in the jacket’s fur collar. Oh yeah, it definitely belonged to Launchpad. But… what was it doing in Jim’s room?

He attempted to pick it up, only to realize there was something slightly heavy weighing it down.

Dewey unzipped the jacket. Inside was a thick scrapbook, bound together by twine. The cover proudly displayed a crudely-drawn Darkwing Duck on a piece of notebook paper glued to the front, with a signature at the bottom boldly reading, ‘L. MCQUACK’.

He moved to switch on the lamp and place the scrapbook on the bed. With a deep breath, he opened it.

The first thing he noticed was that there was a _lot_ of art in it. Mostly similar to the scrapbook cover with rough pencil doodles of Darkwing riding around on the Ratcatcher, beating up clowns and being attacked by… butterflies?

Oh, not butterflies, Dewey realized. They were hearts.

Launchpad could probably use a couple of drawing lessons at the Duckburg community center.

He flipped through page after page and noticed the amount of drawings dwindled significantly in place of photographs and newspaper clippings.

There were a quite a few Polaroids of Launchpad at various ages dressed up as Darkwing Duck. Dewey knew that Launchpad had a deep fondness for the show, but he didn’t expect the extent of it to go _that_ deep.

Excerpts from TV guides and show reviews took up a decent amount of pages as well.

It wasn’t until he reached about two-thirds into the scrapbook when a heading jumped out at him. So much so, he had to re-read it twice to make sure he understood it.

**REAL-LIFE ROBBER: THWARTED BY MAN DRESSED AS OBSCURE 90’S SUPERHERO**

A light knock against the wall made him jump.

In a panic, he closed the book (while keep his place with his hand wedged in-between the pages) and eyed the door. His high-alertness seemed to be in vain, as nothing or nobody sounded like they were going to confront him.

His heart beating a bit too fast for his liking, he moved the scrapbook off the bed to the carpet so he could sit down and sort through it, but the edge of the book snagged on Jim’s comforter. Dewey saw something dark clatter to the floor in his peripheral vision.

He held his breath.

It was a gun.

Alarmed, he took a couple of cautious steps forward. Upon further assessment, Dewey realized how it didn’t really look like any other gun he had seen before, either in movies or in real life. It was purple and bulky and… just didn’t look real.

He squinted at it before it hit him.

Oh. It was a prop, from the TV show.

Dewey picked up the gun curiously. It wasn’t as light as he thought it would be, considering it was just a hunk of plastic.

But. Still. It was probably considered evidence of… whatever wrongdoing Jim Starling was keeping a secret. Maybe. Had he stolen old props and outfits from off the set of his TV show? Dewey was unsure.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, switching the hold on the prop from two hands to one. The weighted gun teetered back and forth in his grasp as he snapped a picture of it.

In the process of doing so, however, his finger found the trigger and pressed down. Hard.

A sharp hissing erupted from the gun’s barrel and he dropped it with a clunk to the floor.

Dewey let out a yelp before being completely swallowed up by reddish-purple smoke.

* * *

 

**_/ BEFORE… /_ **

 

Traffic in Duckburg was horrendous. Truly, just the worst.

Jim was beginning to question why Gosalyn’s team just couldn’t play at the rink in St. Canard. Home advantage?

Regardless of reason, he still had to drive over and book their stay at a hotel and sit in stop-and-go traffic like the rest of the players’ parents had to. He supposed that was equal enough. But it still bothered him that his city was being left unguarded, unattended to, in his absence.

Albeit, St. Canard had been doing fine just four weeks prior...

“I told ya we shoulda left at three, Dad,” Gosalyn reminded him from the back seat.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered absentmindedly.

After what felt like hours, things began to pick up a little bit. He found himself able to go just above the speed limit with seemingly no problems.

That was, until tires screeched behind him.

Being a professional stuntman _slash_ talented actor _slash_ esteemed crime-fighter for most of his career (although, the ‘esteemed crime-fighter’ gig had only been going on for about a month now) could not have prepared Jim for the ear-piercing sound of metal crunching against metal.

His bill slammed against the steering wheel, but he quickly diverted his attention off of his own pain when he heard his daughter shriek behind him.

The back window of the car had been completely shattered, sprinkling small shards of glass all over the back seat. Right where Gosalyn was crouched, covering the back of her neck with her hands.

In an instant, Jim was unbuckled out of the front seat and he gathered her in his arms. “Gosalyn! Gos, sweetie, are you okay?” He unstrapped her helmet, brushed the bangs out of her eyes and scanned her face for any scratches, going on to survey her arms and back. Surprisingly- or perhaps _unsurprisingly,_ considering the fact that she was decked out in protective hockey gear- nothing.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re alright!” He began to shower her forehead in kisses, causing Gosalyn to groan.

“ _Blech!_ Enough with the grandma kisses, Dad. I’m fine,” she assured, lightly pushing him off of her.

Setting her back down, Jim glowered at the car behind him through the broken back window. He was unable to see much, other than the fact it was a limo that had caused the crash. _Oof._ If it was Tim Costly’s driver that had just rear-ended him, he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to keep his composure.

He rolled up his sleeves before cracking his knuckles. “Oh ho ho, I have quite the bone to pick with this guy.”

“No! Dad!” Gosalyn begged, clinging to his sweater vest. “Don’t make a scene, I just wanna get to the game on time. You know what coach said last time we were late!”

Jim didn’t seem to hear a word she said. “Stay in the car, Gos. Anyone who drives like that must be a maniac.”

His daughter’s protests were not muffled as he closed the door, suddenly reminding him of the shattered window. He quickly ran around back to assess the damage.

The back side of his car had been roughed up quite a bit, but it was the front of the limo that was completely totaled. The driver’s face was obscured by the inflated airbag, behind the wheel.

Jim felt a brief rush of panic in exchange for anger. Sure, this dolt had just rammed into him without _any_ regards for safety, but the fact that he didn’t know whether or not the driver was still alive or not startled him.

Just as Jim was about to confront them and ask if they were alright ( _if they could say they were alright_ ), the airbag shifted slightly and a large figure staggered out of the front seat.

The man doubled over, breathing heavy, before he let out a nervous chuckle and slapped the roof of the limo. He didn’t appear to have a scratch on him, other than his hair being slightly disheveled.

“Phew! That one… that was a doozy!” There was something extremely off about the phrasing and tone of his voice. And, of course, Jim found it infuriating.

Just as quickly as it had simmered down, Jim’s temper boiled up again and he began running his mouth. “What in the world were you thinking?! No, I’ll tell you what you were thinking: _nothing!_ Absolutely nothing at all! You could have gotten me or my daughter seriously hurt! And you sound _so dismissive_ about it!” he scolded.

Stifling the nagging sense of familiarity of the driver, Jim grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and yanked his face down to be leveled with Jim’s. The driver was mortified as the tirade continued.

“How could you be so… so… _reckless!_ ”

Mouth agape, the man began to teeter slowly towards him, seemingly losing his ability to stand. Or he was fainting. Oh no. He was _definitely_ fainting.

Jim attempted to hold him in place with one hand while the other hand lightly slapped him in the face. “Hey…! H-h-hey hey hey, woah there, guy! Stay with me!”

Still struggling under the weight of the driver, Jim delivered one final blow to his beak, officially waking him up with a start. Terror seeped back into the driver’s expression as his face blanched even further. He took off his cap and placed it over his heart.

“D-DW… I am _so_ sorry I crashed into you,” he replied, much more earnestly than Jim had expected.

“You didn’t _sound_ so sorry just a moment- wait, what did you just call me?”

Jim heard glass crunch behind him. “Launchpad!” He looked back and forth to his daughter and the driver.

“...Cosplayer guy?” he asked weakly.

Launchpad avoided his gaze, instead staring down the hat he continued to toy with. “I was kinda hoping you woulda forgotten about that,” he admitted sheepishly.

Before he could retort with some snarky comment, his daughter spoke first.

“Go easy on him, Dad!” Gosalyn cried out. “It was just an accident. No one got hurt!”

Jim crossed his arms in annoyance. “I thought I told you to stay in the- oh, forget it. Just watch for glass shards,” he reminded her.

His head snapped around to look at Launchpad when he began to put things together. There was something with the way his red hair was parted… or, the way he was standing, totally unharmed, in front of a busted-up limo...

Immediately, his brain placed where he had seen this man, before the convention and before the accident.

“Wait just a minute…” Jim took a step closer, jabbing a finger in Launchpad’s face. “I knew you looked familiar! You’re Scrooge McDuck’s pilot!”

This must have taken a second to register with him as Launchpad stared blankly back. The moment it did, however, a grin wider than Jim thought was capable crossed his expression.

“You know me?!” Launchpad exclaimed, throwing the cap back on his head.

“Of course I do! You’re practically glued to the hip with the guy, always standing behind him on TV or in pictures.”

This caused Launchpad to chuckle. “Mr. McDee always does stand in front of me.”

The three of them stood together awkwardly, not sure exactly where to go from here. When silence lingered a bit too long for all of their likings, Launchpad approached conversation with caution. Nerves had seemed to work him up again.

“I… I have so much I’ve wanted to say to you…” he confessed, not quite making eye-contact.

Jim blinked. There was a lot of weight to that statement that he wasn’t sure he wanted to unpack. “Well, we’re actually in a hurry, on our way to my daughter’s hockey game, so…”

Launchpad met his gaze and grinned. “Really? I can take you guys over, no problem!” he proclaimed.

Jim eyed him skeptically, then gestured to the mangled front of the limo. “In… in _that?_ ”

“Well, no, but we’re within pretty short walking distance of the mansion and I’ve got a couple of alternate modes of transportation there!”

Gosalyn rushed forward and proceeded to grab Launchpad by his hands, catching both him and Jim completely off-guard. She tugged and twisted his arms in jubilation.

“You mean like your plane?! Keen gear! Dad, let’s just do that-”

Jim wasted no time to put the idea to rest. He pulled her back by the sleeve of her jersey. “Nuh-uh,” he insisted, much to his daughter’s dismayed pout. “No way in hell am I getting in a plane piloted by the guy who literally just crashed into me!”

Ignoring Gosalyn’s dismay, he brushed past her and made his way to the busted-up limo. Jim cast a dour glance at Launchpad.

“Just give me your information, I’ll give you _my_ information and we’ll be on our way,” he stated, pulling an 8-by-10 and a pen out of thin air. Using one of the windows that hadn’t been shattered as a hard surface, he flipped his portrait over and began scribbling his insurance details on the glossy backside. Launchpad watched in confusion for a second before frowning.

“S-sure thing, DW,” he assured, walking around and climbing into the passenger’s seat to retrieve his information.

“It’s Jim.”

Photo in hand, Jim went over to Gosalyn and leaned down to her level. “Y’see, Gosalyn? You don’t have to humor people like that. Just get what you need from them and go your separate ways,” he muttered.

Glowering at her father, Gosalyn crossed her arms and let out an aggravated huff in response.

“This should be everything y’need.”

The duo turned their attention back on Launchpad, who held a sole piece of notebook paper in his grasp. Rolling his eyes, Jim exchanged his portrait for the slightly stained sheet. He skimmed it, scanning the words for any apparent mistakes.

Satisfied with what he was given, Jim began ushering Gosalyn back to their car. Broken back window didn’t mean completely un-drivable, right?

“Sit in the front with me. If anyone asks, you’re thirteen, got it?” he told her. She grumbled something in response, but ultimately did as she was told. Jim turned around to see Launchpad still standing there, staring at him like a wounded puppy.

It made him feel a slight twinge of guilt. “And… uh, for you. Just… make sure that McDuck pays the damages,” he reminded Launchpad, getting back behind the wheel.

They had only made it about half a mile before they heard the distinct screeching of police sirens behind them.

Both sighed in unison as Jim was pulled over.

A dark-haired tan-feathered police woman got out of her vehicle and approached Jim’s rolled down window, badge around her neck swaying slightly with each step. She and Jim shared a somewhat knowing, tired look.

“Tail lights are out?” he asked.

“Tail lights are out,” she answered, getting out the set of tickets from her back pocket.

With the police woman’s attention diverted momentarily, Jim saw the opportunity to lean over to Gosalyn and mutter, “I hate Duckburg.”

* * *

 

**_| NOW… |_ **

 

The remaining siblings had been chatting amongst themselves in an attempt to see who would be willing to retrieve Dewey from upstairs when Webby’s phone began buzzing. A quick inspection of the caller ID showed that it was in fact Mrs. Beakley calling, likely to check up on them.

Horrified and in a panic, Webby threw the phone into Huey’s lap and it began to be tossed around between the three kids like Hot Potato.

When it became clear that neither of the boys would be the one to answer, Webby snatched it mid-throw and pressed the green button.

“Oh! Hi, Granny,” Webby said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

“How’s that movie going?” Beakley asked. Her tone seemed as neutral as ever.

“It’s, uh, it’s great! Really good. So good I had to go outside for a couple of minutes to check and see if I got any messages on my phone!”

Webby’s eyes darted around the room for something, _anything_ that would back her up when she laid eyes on Huey and Louie.

 _“Make sound effects,”_ she murmured to the brothers, hand covering her phone. The two obliged, as Huey made unconvincing explosion noises overlayed with Louie’s apparent dubstep mouth beat. Webby returned to the call, hoping it was enough to maintain the facade.

“Woah! Can you hear that?! Sounds like a blast. I should probably get back in there since I’m missing so much. See you later-”

“I know you’re in St. Canard, Webbigail,” Beakley sternly declared.

Webby’s heart sunk. “Oh… how?”

“Donald gets alerts with each of Dewey’s camera uploads,” she explained. “He just took a picture of a toy gun, with his location on. Worked the poor man up into a panic attack.”

“G-granny, I’m so-”

“Save it. We’re sending over Launchpad to pick you kids up at once.”

Webby’s eyes widened as she grasped the phone tighter. The brothers looked equally anxious. “No! You can’t do that!” she cried out.

“And why not?” Beakley questioned. It was clear that she was running out of patience.

“Because… because…” Webby trailed off before taking in a deep breath. “We tracked down the actor who plays that Darkwing Duck guy Launchpad likes so much to invite him to Launchpad’s birthday party but then we found out he lived in St. Canard and we thought that Uncle Donald wouldn’t appreciate us going there so we lied about the whole movie thing and asked Gyro to take us since we can’t ask Launchpad and can’t ride the bus! But then Gyro didn’t want to take us but then Gizmoduck offered to fly us over instead! And then once we met the actual actor guy he told us Launchpad and him were already friends but then Dewey said-”

“Webbigail,” Beakley interrupted.

“Y-yes, Granny?”

“Condensed version, please.”

Even though her grandmother couldn’t see her, Webby nodded her head. “We wanted to invite Jim Starling to Launchpad’s birthday party without anyone knowing,” she replied.

“Thank you,” Beakley said. There was a brief bout of silence on her end. Then, light shuffling and unintelligible duck squawking. Webby assumed she had just recounted everything to Uncle Donald.

Beakley returned. “Both Donald and I will deliberate this and decide on your punishment for lying about your whereabouts. In the meantime, do you have a ride home?”

Webby had to ponder this for a moment. “Yeah, I think so,” she answered, unsure.

“Alright. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Granny.”

“You’re welcome. Just be sure to keep me updated.”

And with that, it seemed like the kids were off scott free. Well, aside from the punishment part. And aside from Jim bursting through the kitchen doors, peering around the corner.

“Who was that…? The person you were talking to?” he questioned, eyeing each sibling suspiciously.

None of the kids could think of a response before he surveyed the scene before him.

“ _Waaaiit_ a minute,” Jim started, hastily throwing his oven mitt on the coffee table. “Where’s the blue one?”

All of the kids looked at each other nervously. They had almost forgotten the other predicament that Dewey had gotten them into. Huey’s bill trembled as he spoke. “Wh-whatever do you mean, Mr. Starling? There’s only three of us-”

“No, there’s four,” Jim insisted, narrowing his eyes. “I counted four as soon as you all walked into my home. You’re all color-coordinated and I am _positive_ there was a blue kid.” His mouth suddenly dropped open in realization. “Is he touching my trophies?!”

A noisy commotion from upstairs put a swift end to their conversation.

* * *

 

 

_“...Huh?”_

Dewey had regained consciousness before, but this… this was different. Everything before him was blurred together in a slow purple-green swirl, in a way that almost made him feel sick to his stomach. After he had slurred out the ‘huh’ and opened his eyes, a blurry brownish-orangish-red shape had entered his field of vision.

Focusing more, he recognized the face as belonging to the girl from the pictures he had seen before. Blinking in rapid succession helped him clear his sight, as well as his head.

He felt extremely groggy still, probably as a side-effect from the gun.

It soon registered to Dewey that he was bound to a swiveling chair with multiple belts fastened around his arms and torso.

Presumably, his captor was the pigtail haired girl in front of him wielding a baseball bat.

She took out a flashlight and shone it in Dewey’s face in an effort to... simulate an interrogation environment? “Alright, squirt. You’ve got twenty seconds to tell me what you were doing, snooping around in my dad’s room!”

“ _‘Squirt’?_ You look the same age as-”

The bat came dangerously close to the bridge of his bill. “Don’t change the subject on me! I want answers!” the girl ordered.

Frustrated, Dewey groaned and twisted and turned around in the chair he was unable to get up from. A slight shift in weight was all that was needed for the him (as well as the swivel chair) to topple with a loud thud to the floor.

Dewey hissed in pain, looking up at the girl who was inching closer to him. “I got an even better question to ask: why does your dad have actual, real-life weapons just lying around in his bedroom? And why does he have Launchpad’s jacket?”

“I don’t gotta explain anything to a no-good trespasser!” she spat, throwing the bat over her shoulder. However, her hostility seemed to drain out of her once it actually occurred to her who he had mentioned.

“...Wait, Launchpad?” she repeated, raising a curious eyebrow. “What’dya know about Launchpad?”

Without warning, the bedroom door was wide open. Jim and the kids poured in, bearing witness to what was taking place before them.

Huey, Louie and Webby caught sight of Dewey’s predicament and all said in bewilderment:

“Wait, what?”

Jim wasn’t nearly as phased. He stepped forward, massaging his temples. “Gos, let the kid go.”

Gosalyn stared blankly at him, then back at Dewey. “But, Dad, he was going through stuff in your room-”

“ _Now,_ Gosalyn.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Gosalyn whined with a pout. Following her dad’s command, she unbuckled each belt, freeing Dewey from his restraints.

He struggled to get up to his feet due to the lingering effects of the gas-gun and was subsequently aided by Huey and Webby.

One he was up, Dewey pointed an accusatory finger at Jim.

“What… the… _heck_ is going on?” he demanded. “You’re an actual crime-fighter?!”

This accusation seemed to render everyone else in the room dumbfounded, all except from Jim, whose face didn’t change. Gosalyn seemed tense, visibly sweating a little as she distanced herself from the children and attached herself at her dad’s side.

Jim’s expression darkened, causing Webby and the triplets to huddle together. There was a clear divide between the two groups as the increasing suspense in the room became more and more nerve-racking.

He turned his back on everyone, folding his arms behind his back.

“I am the terror that flaps in the night,” he declared loudly.

Jim swung around and stalked forward, soon towering over the kids. He grabbed Huey by the back of his shirt in demonstration.

“I am the itchy tag at the back at your shirt’s collar.”

Huey was placed back down. The others continued to watch Jim's preamble with a mixture of amazement and sheer horror.

Jim took one last glance at Dewey before grinning.

“I... am _Darkwing Duck._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, this was a long one for me! I hope this chapter wasn't confusing at all, as I worried I was muddling things narratively with jumping between the present events unfolding and Jim and Launchpad's first meeting(s). That's why I made it clear as to what was in the past and what was in the present, just to make sure!
> 
> ANYWAYS... it was so fun to implement a couple different scenarios as to how Jim and Launchpad will cross paths. I adore the idea of Launchpad meeting Gosalyn before Jim and her encouraging them to meet each other with the backdrop of a comic-con just seemed to make sense! The final flashback is in the next chapter and I'm super excited to finish it. 
> 
> Thank-you guys SO MUCH for all the feedback I got on the first chapter! Kudos and comments really mean the world to me.


	3. The Explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO… obviously, this whole story was cooked up and nearly 3/4ths of the way finished… then “The Duck Knight Rises” aired and completely blew all this stuff out of the water. But that’s what AUs are for, right? I love the show’s interpretation of DW and Launchpad and I definitely prefer it to ANYTHING I had thought of, though I was pretty giddy about predicting Launchpad being a “fainter” and Jim being replaced in a Darkwing Duck reboot. Going forward, I just wanna state that the age gap between LP and Jim is about like it was in the original DWD cartoon and Drake doesn’t exist in this story (yeah, I know, it makes me really sad but Drake existing would just kinda be redundant in this particular fic given that I just wrote Jim to encompass the both of them). And, I doubt that it needs to be stated but since Jim wound up with Gosalyn, he isn’t completely driven by spite and selfishness (hence, no Negaduck reveal up my sleeve, sorry). 
> 
> With that lengthy intro outta the way, I hope you all enjoy the rest of the story!

Instead of the “wait, what?” that typically succeeded a great revelation, the kids were caught in a whirlwind of emotions as they exchanged enduring glances with one another. Glances that said a lot more than a “wait, what?” was capable of.

Louie was the first to vocalize one of them. “...Well, we knew that already,” he stated flatly, hands tucked into his hoodie’s pocket.

Bewilderment crossed Jim’s face for a split-second before quickly souring into agitation.

“No, no, I mean _really_ Darkwing Duck.”

He was greeted to further silence from the color-coordinated crowd (excluding Dewey, who stood off to the side with a scowl). His daughter, as a reluctant witness to it all, folded her arms.

“He’s talking about the real-life guy dressed up as Darkwing Duck and fighting crime here in St. Canard,” she explained with an eye roll. 

The divulgence was once more lost on the kids not in-the-know. A collective “huh?” filled the cramped bedroom.

Jim scoffed at the children's complete and utter lack of keeping up with 'current events'. He had expected a shared shocked gasp from them all, perhaps even a flood of questions from Webby. Sincerely. Where was the fun of the reveal when none of them even knew about Darkwing's reputable resurgence in the first place?

“Seriously? None of you have heard about the _dashing duck do-gooder_ running about in-costume?!" he exclaimed, stomping his foot in frustration. "Who, may I remind you, has stopped nineteen crimes-in-progress thus far. _Nineteen!_ ”

It was Gosalyn’s turn to voice her irritation. “Yeah, sheesh. Do all you Duckburg folks live under a rock or somethin’? We hear about Gizmoduck getting kittens down from trees over there.”

None of them knowing how to respond, the kids all sort of half-heartedly shrugged in return. St. Canard wasn’t exactly a high-priority facet of Duckburg news. 

“I saw it in the scrapbook," Dewey piped in. He still looked particularly angry, though whether it was directed towards Jim or the situation itself was unclear. "They’re telling the truth… I think.”

The remaining triplets looked bewildered. “Scrapbook?” they parrotted. 

Jim slapped his forehead, reaching his tipping point. “Oh, _for crying out-_ just look it up already," he heaved out.

Before Louie or Huey could even think of getting out their phones, Webby had already pulled up an article online:

 _“‘Real life robber: Thwarted by man dressed as obscure 90’s superhero’,”_ she read aloud.

A pregnant pause followed as she scanned through it. Huey and Louie hovered over both of her shoulders, attempting to read along with her. 

“...Looks like it checks out,” Webby finally confirmed. “Says right here on the website for the St. Canard Chronicle that there’s a guy that’s been fighting crime for the past couple months, claiming to be _Darkwing Duck!”_

“That’s what we’ve been sayin’,” Gosalyn huffed. She wormed her way past Huey to retrieve the soda off her desk and take a noisy swig from it. 

Dewey, in turn, redirected the attention back onto Jim. 

“Alright, it's your turn to start talking," he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Jim's chest. "From the beginning. Why are you… _how_ are you…” 

Jim placed an understanding hand on Dewey's shoulder. In an instant, Dewey's temper seemed to diminish. 

“Super is getting cold," Jim mused, motioning towards the door with his free hand. "Let’s continue this discussion at the dinner table, alright?”

Dewey narrowed his eyes, before looking back to the others for reassurance. They appeared uncertain, maybe a little skeptical, but Webby gave a small nod of approval. 

"The… whole truth?" Dewey asked cautiously. He peered up at him, brow furrowed. 

For what seemed like the first time since they met, Jim was completely sincere. "The whole truth."

 

* * *

 

 

**_/ BEFORE… /_ **

 

The plan had started off so simple.

Play the hero role in the real streets of St. Canard as a PR stunt, beat-up some baddies, prove his worth to television executives, exit retirement to reprise the titular role in the Darkwing Duck reboot. Easy enough. He had accomplished a lot more under graver circumstances (shooting that cinnamon pie battle scene in a hundred degree weather, for instance). 

But, time and time again, Jim proved that he couldn’t handle ‘simple’. He had to have things messy and overcomplicated. 

After his first attempt at stopping a car theft, he found that he liked the limelight of masquerading as his former role. No… he _loved_ it. It gave him a sense of adrenaline he hadn’t experienced in over a decade. 

Stalking the night, abiding by no rules regarded by law enforcement _and_ wearing a cape that made him look fifteen years younger? Jim had never felt a greater connection to Darkwing's character, even more than when he portrayed him on television.

Tonight? He spotted a robbery in-progress. 

Jim had been leaping from rooftop to rooftop, only pausing in his surveillance efforts to sit down for a moment or to stretch (after all, he wasn't as young and agile as he used to be) when he heard a high-pitched scream pierce the air. 

He peered over the side of the building he resided on to see a teenage dog girl fleeing a convenience store, dropping a name tag and apron behind her. An employee of some sort, he supposed.

Then there was the catalyst for the distress: Jim discerned a lanky figure inside a convenience store loading wads of money from the register into a cartoonishly large sack. 

A classic crime. 

With assistance from his grappling gun, he was able to make his way across the street and position himself above clear semi-ajar panelling on top of the store. The perfect view, he thought. 

He was in the midst of formulating his dramatic entrance (after all, a good chunk of the fun of being a superhero was the _theatrics_ , and it took a little while for him to come up with those phrases peppered with alliteration) when he sensed two things at once: the familiar chime of his cell phone’s ring accompanied by a buzzing sensation from his front pocket. 

Jim peered below him in absolute horror as the criminal looked around for the source of the noise. He scrambled for his phone, somehow hitting decline despite his heart thrashing inside of his chest, pounding a mile a minute. Internally, he cursed himself for not remembering to put it on vibrate. 

From his fast glimpse of the number, he realized the call wasn’t even from the area… had telemarketers from Spoonerville expanded their reach or something…?!

He was forced to let the blunder go when he spotted the robber snatch a few bottles of cold syrup before making a break for the back exit.

There was no time to waste.

Scrambling to the other side of the roof, Jim positioned himself to be dangling off so that he’d have a clear shot to pounce on the crook and put an end to his medicine-swiping mayhem once and for all. 

Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. Jim had always wondered why his episode pitches always got rejected on the show; if he could live it, he could definitely write it. 

The exit door burst open. Now was the time to act.

With a slight swing, Jim released his grip on the railing and successfully toppled the criminal to the ground. 

...Of course, this meant Jim was on the ground with him, almost equally as disoriented. The two laid tangled together on the unwashed convenience store floor.

"Augh, what the-?!" the robber grunted before shoving Jim off of him.

After being propelled backwards, Jim used a water fountain to stand. Most definitely thrown off of his groove, he opted to skip the whole ‘Darkwing introduction’ gimmick and skip straight to the alliteration: “S-stop right there, you… you _thankless thermo thief!”_

The robber got back on his feet as well, hoisting the sack over his shoulder with ease. He inspected Jim from head to toe, smirking. “Cute. How long did it take ya to come up with that one?”

The smugness of the man made Jim feel an intensifying sense of apprehension. “I made it up… on the fly! Yeah! Now you know who you’re dealing with!”

Under fluorescent lighting, Jim got a better view of who he was dealing with: a pale, gaunt dog who looked like he possibly could have been a beagle boy… once. The bags under his eyes were somehow still visible under his mask. 

“I don’t know who you think you are,” the thief spat. “Runnin’ around town in a Halloween costume and gettin’ in the way of things… but you’d best give it up now before I do somethin’ irrational.”

“Irrational?”Jim repeated dismissively, hands planted firmly on his hips. “Like _what,_ club me to death with that bag of bills?”

The man flashed him a grin before reaching into the bag of loot with his free hand. When it reappeared, it was holding a rusted crow bar. 

“I was thinkin’ more along the lines of bashin’ your face in.”

The sickly-colored man raised the crow bar above his head.

It all happened too quickly for Jim to fully grasp what was going on: all he noticed was movement out of the corner of his eye before something proceeded to body-slam the perpetrator with enough force to send him flying into the nearest freezer. Jim watched as it shook violently, teetering forward with its door agape. A bag of ice dropped out and landed with a loud _smack_ on top of the outcold robber.

Only the height of the snack shelf right next to the freezer propped it up from falling over completely.

Jim was aghast. A swell of pride bloomed in his chest as he felt he had done a good job here when he remembered he wasn’t alone in stopping this particular crime. He was about to thank his apparent guardian angel when his breath caught in his throat. 

Oh no. It _couldn’t_ be...

“So... it really is you. Huh!”

...It was. The ‘fainter’. The ‘awful driver’. Gosalyn had said his name before. It had something to do with rocket science…? How did he manage to get inside, undetected? Were both hero and villain too caught up in their own commotion to notice a hulking man sneak in?

Because of every question and every incertitude, Jim struggled to maintain his composure. “Wh-what are you talking about, uh, citizen...”

The man let out a hearty laugh before seizing Jim's shoulder with a squeezing hand. A little too chummy for Jim's liking, as he squirmed under the touch. Random unpleasant encounters aside, he was still… _a stranger_. A weirdly affable stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. 

“No need to play up the superhero persona thing, DW. I called your number while you were out stalking the city and whatnot," he replied with a grin. "I had a hunch it might be you, after seeing your stunts in person. I know your moves like the back of my plane! I’ve only seen each episode like, a hundred times. I just needed to confirm it.”

Launchpad, he recalled. His name was Launchpad. 

Jim’s brain was running on low steam; in fact, it was barely functioning at this rate, so it took a minute to process what was being relayed to him. His mouth became completely dry while protesting:

“.. _.Hey!_ How did you get my number?”

“The crash a few weeks back, remember?” Launchpad prompted. “You included it with all your insurance stuff.”

Oh, Jim most certainly remembered. Even though the damage had been compensated for, he had made it his goal to complain to anyone who would listen (in almost all cases, that ‘anyone’ was the reluctant audience one-person-audience of Gosalyn) about how awful Duckburg's drivers were nearly every day since. 

He felt the hand leave his shoulder and he immediately stared up at the other man, towering before him. 

Confusion had overtaken Launchpad’s features. “But, wait… why are you doing this? I thought you were retired.”

“I _am_ retired!” Jim insisted, arms flailing about. “I just… I ran to the store to get some cough medicine. For Gos- er, my daughter’s cold. And then I happened to enter the same place that was being burglarized. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I get that! Sometimes I go out on walks late at night in my Darkwing costume too, just for fun. But… that doesn’t explain all the reports… and you jumping from rooftop to rooftop..”

“Enough with the interrogation, already! Why are you here?!” Jim snapped. He leaned against the snack shelf in a defensive pose. 

Launchpad fished his phone out of his pocket, pulling something up on it. Jim was quick to recognize the articles’ title and content: he had read it many times prior. 

“This!,” Launchpad exclaimed. Phone clenched in his grasp, he pressed it lovingly against his chest. “Ever since I had caught wind of some masked crusader assuming the identity of my personal hero, I cleared some things from my schedule, rushed over to St. Canard and planned a steakout to meet the guy! I would’ve never guessed it was you, though!”

“Your… personal… _hero_ …?” Jim echoed, as if to convince himself of it. He quickly shook his head. “Bah! Nevermind. Stop calling me ‘DW’ and go home. And don’t tell anybody about this.”

Disappointment crossed Launchpad’s face ever so briefly. But, just as he had recovered from the car accident so abruptly, he seemed to recover just as fast from this blow, too. “You got it, DW. Er, Mr. Starling! Er...”

Jim felt himself about to say something- as to what, even he couldn’t predict at this point- when he sensed something was going awry.  

The freezer had lurched forward with a low creak.

And then everything was cold. And dark. Extremely dark. 

The first thing Jim felt when he came to was being enveloped in warm leather, with a fur collar tickling his face.

Secondly, he was hit with a strong smell: a combination of cologne and freshly-made burritos. While it was a peculiar aroma to be greeted with after seeing his life flash before his eyes, it certainly wasn’t an unpleasant one. He could almost say it was… comforting. 

His vision was still a little blurry when he made out what appeared to be his bedroom, along with a moonlighted figure sitting patiently at his bedside, faced toward the window. Before he could even work himself up into being alarmed, he noticed that the ‘mystery’ person was particularly buff and had a head of bright red hair… 

Jim moved to prop himself up against the headboard.

Noticing the movement, Launchpad whipped around and met Jim’s gaze. Only now, seeing him dawning a green shirt with the sleeves rolled up did it register to him that the pilot jacket Jim was wearing was _his._  

“You’re awake!” Launchpad exclaimed, quickly taking him into his arms and wrapping him in a smothering bear-hug. Jim let out a small wheeze of pain, signalling for Launchpad to set him down back onto the bed, slightly embarrassed.  

“Oops, sorry about that,” he said, sheepishly wringing his hands. “Got a little carried away there and you’re… probably still recovering from that freezer hit to your head.”

It wasn’t until it was mentioned when Jim’s temples began to throb, almost as if the pain had been put on ‘pause’. He groaned and gently placed a hand to his forehead when he noticed a different texture. It had been delicately wrapped with... gauze?

Launchpad was quick to explain. “I didn’t wanna call an ambulance in case of the whole ‘secret identity’ thing. Y’know. Superhero stuff. So I… made sure the crook was taken into custody, drove you back home, and tried to tend to your wounds a little. I’m just lucky your daughter answered the door!”

Jim felt a little lightheaded… whether it was from the freezer fall or the information Launchpad was unloading onto him or both, he wasn’t sure. Nonetheless, a question formed on his tongue:

“How’d you know where I live?”

“I looked it up! It’s the third one down in the search results,” Launchpad answered, pulling out his phone in demonstration. Taking it in his hands, Jim squinted at the overly bright screen. His correct home address was indeed on display. 

“Really? It was that easy?” he murmured thoughtfully, before handing it back to Launchpad.  “That’s… a little concerning.”

Launchpad waited expectantly at his bedside, for… something. What did he want? A pat on the back? A kiss on the cheek? Whatever it was, it made Jim feel uncomfortable. 

Growing a little too hot, he began to fidget under the leather of his jacket. 

“Well… thank-you, Launchpad. Uh, not just for bringing me home, but also for your help. In stopping the, er, crime in progress.”

“Anytime, DW,” Launchpad hummed cheerfully.

“Please, _LP,_ call me Jim.”

“Alright, D _eeee-_ Jim.”

That unspoken expectancy bubbled under the surface of their conversation once more. In the midst of formulating a polite way of asking him to leave, Jim felt another particularly bad pounding of pain from his head. He hissed, retreating further into the folds of Launchpad’s jacket. 

Immediately, Launchpad took notice and reached across his curled-up form to retrieve a pill bottle, as well as a glass of water. 

He handed Jim the pain relievers. “Here. I found these in your medicine cabinet. I’m no doctor, but… I think it might help the pain a little.” 

Jim raised an eyebrow at this, but took the bottle regardless. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Launchpad had literally prepped for everything. 

“Uh, thanks,” he murmured, popping the cap off. The pills rattled around as he shook out three to take. Launchpad gave him the water and watched patiently as he gulped everything down. 

Whatever he had been itching to say, he let it escape while Jim put the glass aside. “You know… I always watched your show as a kid, wondering, ‘hey, why doesn’t DW have a sidekick to drive him to places he wants to go? And why doesn’t he wear any pants?’. And y’know, given recent events…”

At first, Jim thought that Launchpad’s comment was completely random, but he soon felt like he knew fully where the dialogue was headed. It needed some kind of intervention. 

“Darkwing didn’t need a sidekick,” he interjected. “He got around just fine on the Ratcatcher.”

Launchpad didn't seem to catch on. “I-I know that! I just always thought it would be cool if he had one, and I had been working on this project for a while, kinda related to that...”

“ _I_ don’t need a sidekick.”

A flash of hurt spanned Launchpad’s face and Jim instantly felt his heart sink with regret. For… some reason. This stranger who had, _up until this point_ , ruined his entire display at a convention and crashed into the back of his car made Jim feel incredibly vulnerable. 

Why? What made him so… _different?_

Launchpad seemed to muster up the strength for a semi-smile. “I understand, DW. It’s a solo act. I wouldn’t wanna get in your way or anything.”

He shifted slightly on the bed to turn back towards the window, his weight rocking the mattress. “Maybe they’ll give ‘em a sidekick in the reboot?” he suggested jokingly.

Jim groaned and felt the stabbing sensation at his temples double in its' pressure. “Don’t talk to me about that… that accursed blight of a reboot, please,” he grumbled. 

This attitude of disgust towards the Darkwing reboot even being mentioned seemed to strike a chord with Launchpad.

“I know!” he blurted out in agreement. “I keep tellin’ Gizmoduck that they got it all wrong to not even involve you. He’s the only other real “Darkwing Duck” fan I know around the workplace, and he agrees with me! Even _thinking_ about replacing you with Tim Costly is insane! You’re the one and only DW.”

“Yeah! Yeah… of course I am!”

A beat of silent revelation.

“Wait… did you just say Gizmoduck’s a “Darkwing Duck” fan?”

Launchpad blanched at the admission. “O-oh, no, I _meant_ to say my buddy Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera. No… no, _WAIT!_ ” He slapped his forehead in anguish. Jim couldn’t stop a small smirk from crossing his features. 

“Fenton, you say…?” Jim said smugly. This caused Launchpad to flinch and turn towards him, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.

“If you ever… meet Fenton, could you not tell him I accidentally revealed his secret identity to you?” he pleaded. “He kinda hates when people find out.”

The gears inside Jim’s brain were turning. “Only if you promise to keep this thing I have going on now a secret.”

With the way Launchpad’s face brightened at this, you’d think someone had told him he had just won a lottery. He grabbed Jim’s hand and squeezed it.

“Deal!”

For a second, Launchpad’s hand lingered, intertwined with his own. Jim’s breath became caught in his throat. He was so unaccustomed to any gesture of affection; at least, not coming from his own daughter. It made him feel… strange. And noticeably anxious. Would he be the one to let go? Did he even _want_ to let go?

He wasn’t left to ponder these things for long as he felt Launchpad’s grip loosen and his hand slipped away. The decision had been made for him.

Jim tried his best to play it off cool. “Yep, yep, yep…” 

As he sunk back into the bed’s pillows, a thought crossed his mind. An inquisition. Something that would further conversation with Scrooge McDuck’s peculiar chauffeur. 

He said it aloud without a second thought:

“Say, LP… what were you talking about before? With that, uh, project you were working on?”

Launchpad smiled warmly. “I think you’ll have to see for yourself!” he replied with a wink. “Next time you’re in Duckburg, stop by the mansion and say you’re there for Launchpad. I’ll tell Mrs. B to let ya in, don’t worry.”

All of a sudden, Launchpad’s eyes widened in apparent realization. Just as Jim was about to ask what was wrong, Launchpad sprung to his feet. “Oh, wait!”

He took a couple of steps toward the chair that sat opposite to the bed, at the corner of the room. He turned around with a square object, proudly displaying it to the bed-ridden mallard. “I was gonna show you this!”

Launchpad held out a rough-edged book held together by twine. The only indication that it was for him was the poorly-drawn Darkwing Duck doodle slapped to the cover. Jim took it in his hands, curious.

“Wha… wha-what is this?” Jim stammered, inspecting the front and back. 

“A scrapbook! I keep it in my trunk at all times, right under my lucky mustard shirt. A little weird, I know,” he confessed. 

Jim held his tongue. He did indeed find the scrapbook thing very weird, in addition to Launchpad's apparent owning of a 'lucky mustard shirt'. But… at the same time, almost endearing? 

He began to flip through, absorbing the array of content featured on page to page. Slowly but surely, it was all sinking in. His sheer dedication to Darkwing Duck was daunting, in a flattering sort of way. Jim wasn’t sure if that was even a real emotion one could have. 

“You… sure are on top of things,” he finally stated after an elongated silence. 

“With all the articles and stuff? Yeah. I just… I dunno. I felt like someone should be keeping them all together in one place, y’know?”

Another flip of a page. More photos, more clippings, more drawings...

“I haven’t ever shown this to anyone else,” Launchpad admitted, watching Jim continuing to turn each page. “Not even my best friend back at home. Not that it’s a secret or anything, cause like, _everyone_ knows how much I admire Darkwing Duck. Er, the character… uh… well, you too. But… it would just come off as too obsessive to him, I think.”

Jim found himself in a difficult position; he didn’t know how to react to all of this. The farthest extent a ‘fan’ had ever gone to for him was given him some fanart at one of his convention appearances. 

Seeing this physical testament to how passionate Launchpad was made Jim think back to the sidekick proposition. It was evident now that Launchpad was completely serious about it. 

Jim always worked alone. Always. Darkwing Duck never bothered with a partner, so why should _he?_

Yet, the incident at the drug store… the ride home… the _scrapbook?_

All of these things together made Jim realize the TV show was… a TV show. Not real life, where things aren’t magically resolved at the end of a thirty-minute Saturday morning time slot. If he had to have his interest in mind, his daughter’s interest in mind… maybe the idea of a helping hand wasn’t so bad? 

With all of his reassessing, what Launchpad said to break him out of his contemplation only helped to further push him:

“...With you, though? I think you’re the only one who would really appreciate it."

His eyes widened and his pulse spiked, feeling a surge of warmth subdue his entire chest. 

He carefully closed the scrapbook. Pressing the book against his chest, he locked eyes with Launchpad.

“I do. I do appreciate this,” Jim confirmed, his voice on the verge of cracking. He absentmindedly thumbed at the scrapbook’s rugged pages; an affectionate gesture. “Thank-you for showing me.”

Launchpad beamed at his response. “You can keep it, if you want. It’s just about filled up. There’s a free page at the end, though, just in case tonight gets some coverage.” He checked his phone for the time before adjusting himself on the mattress. 

"Well, I'd better get going. Mr. McDee's got me running errands for his science squad tomorrow morning, and that Headless Horse guy always wakes up at the crack of dawn! He runs on Headless Horse guy time."

Jim was absolutely not in the right state of mind to try and decipher that sentence. But, with that, Launchpad stood up to his own accord. 

"I saw Gosalyn standing in the hallway,” he mentioned, nodding towards the door. “She's probably worried sick about you. I'll send her in on my way out."

“ _Wait!_ Launchpad.” The statement left him without any thought whatsoever. As did the one that followed shortly after:

“Would you like to have dinner with me and Gos tomorrow night? We could use the company.”

Launchpad’s face lit up at the offer, but wilted after a second. “Ah, I’d love to, DW, but… I got some kids to look after of my own, y’see, and-”

“You’re a father? Are you married?” Jim wasn’t sure why he cared so much about either of these things. Or how they seemed to come out of his mouth without his brain processing them. He really had to work on his filter around Launchpad.

“What? Oh, no. Mr. McDee’s got this nephew, who’s got these other nephews- I know, it’s confusing. A whole mess of Ducks and McDucks, you get lost on who’s who constantly!” he clarified, leaning against the door. “Long story short, they’re my family and I made a promise that I would play board games with ‘em tomorrow. Sort of a big deal for Mr. McDee, too!”

He opened the door, amber light from the hallway seeping in. But not before glancing over his shoulder to meet Jim’s gaze. “But… I’m free on Friday, if that sounds okay,” he added thoughtfully.

Jim was certain his heart skipped a beat. “That sounds more than okay, LP.”

“Great! It’s a date, then. See ya soon, DW.”

As Launchpad ducked into the hallway and started a whispered conversation with his daughter, Jim was overwhelmed by an immense calmness washing over him, from head to toe. 

He knew deep down that this was the start to something truly great. Or... maybe that was the painkillers kicking in.

Or both. 

Probably both.

 

* * *

 

 

**_| NOW… |_ **

 

"...Whoa."

That seemed to be the only thing anyone could respond with, after hearing Jim’s harrowing heroic origin. 

...Well, that and a hushed _“why did he tell us what Launchpad’s jacket smelled like?”_ from one of the triplets. 

The dinner that had been laid out before them (a bountiful feast consisting of a single roast, an open can of seasoned green beans and an amount of mashed potatoes worth one dollop for each person’s plate) was nearly gone. Only Webby still had food left on her plate, her forgetting to eat perhaps due to her enthrallment with Jim’s story. 

Jim had paused temporarily to reach over and clean a smidge of mashed potato from Gosalyn’s bill, much to her dismay. “And… well, that’s about it,” he announced, napkin in hand. “He’s been Darkwing Duck’s honorary sidekick ever since then.”

Webby sawed vigorously at her slab of roast with the child-proof knife she had received when Louie, who had previously been on his phone (and presumed to not be listening) spoke up:

“Did you guys stop an evil baker last week?”

“No, that was an evil _clown-_ wait, what are you reading?”

Louie was about to reply when he was abruptly cut off by his brother. “Wasn’t there an evil clown on the ‘Darkwing Duck’ TV show?” Dewey asked, eyebrow raised.

“There can be more than one evil clown, kid,” Jim answered wearily. “This city runs rampant with them.”

The conversation did not continue further than that, as Louie had physically gotten up from his chair and walked over to Jim, phone in hand. Dewey leaned forward, curious.

It displayed a low-resolution image of Darkwing and Launchpad engulfed in what appeared to be coconut cream pie. Both were completely distressed messes and being cackled at by the aforementioned ‘evil clown’, situated in the background and untouched by any dessert.

“Well, they got his good side, apparently,” Louie remarked with a snort.

“What the-?!” Jim seized the phone from Louie, analyzing it for himself. “Oh, of course they would get that shot and not the one where I single handedly bested him with one punch. _Of course.”_  

Amidst the commotion, Gosalyn leaned over her dad’s shoulder with a “lemme see, lemme see”. She howled with laughter upon seeing the photo, adding to Jim’s evergrowing aggravation. 

Temporarily pausing to catch her breath, she handed the phone back to Louie. “ _Ah, ha ha..._ oh... my... god! Can you... send that... to me?”

“Can do.”

“When did they exchange numbers…?” Huey mumbled. The other siblings merely shrugged.

By this point, Gosalyn fully regained her composure, satisfied by the sharp ‘ping’ of a text being sent to her. “Nice find, Greenie!” she remarked, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “I love me some sweet, sweet blackmail.”

“It’s Louie.”

Gosalyn scoffed, removing her hand to place it on her hip. “How do ya expect me to remember that when you all look exactly alike?”

This garnered an offended glare from each of the triplets, who unintentionally spoke in unison: “We _do not_ all look exactly-”

“So you guys are just fighting crime around the clock, now?” Webby questioned, her mouth filled with food. “Gee. I wonder how Scrooge would feel about all this. Since, you know, Launchpad also works for him.”

Dewey noticed Jim tense up at this seemingly mundane comment. Almost as if... he didn’t consider that Launchpad had another job? No, that couldn’t be it.

Was it the idea of Scrooge finding out that made him go rigid?

“It’s fine. He says he can manage his time between both jobs and I believe that. He commutes over to St. Canard whenever he can,” he remarked plainly.

Webby nodded slowly and with great understanding. “Yeah. I guess if it didn’t interfere at all with him piloting, Scrooge wouldn’t have a problem with it. _Ooh,_ could you pass me the salt, Gosalyn?”

“Sure thing, Webby!” Gosalyn enthusiastically gave her the salt shaker. 

“What?!” Dewey hollered out. “So you remember _her_ name, but not ours?”

He ended up with an elbow in his ribs. “Don’t cramp my style, Bluey.”

As Webby took the last bite of her dinner, Jim surveyed them all; empty plates and tired faces. "Well, I guess it’s getting late,” he announced. “Do you all have a ride?"

“Our friend told us to yell for him once we needed to go home,” Huey said casually. 

Jim groaned, head in his hands. “Please don’t attempt that. You’ll wake my very annoying neighbors, and interacting with them makes me cranky, and god knows you do not want to see me when I’m cranky. I’ll drive you kids home.”

Louie turned to Webby and whispered incredulously: “You mean, he’s just been _happy_ this whole time?”

Naturally, Gosalyn had folded her hands in her lap and began to bat her eyes. “Good idea, Dad. I’ll just be in the living room streaming some _very_ education documentaries till you get back-”

“You’re coming along too,” Jim declared.

“Ah, _Daaaaad!_ Seriously?!” Gosalyn whined, pounding her fists against the unsturdy dining room table. “I’m eleven years old, that’s over a decade in real time-”

“Care to remind me what happened the last time I left you alone at the house?”

This silenced any objection on her tongue. “I…. Your… your tablet got fried on the stovetop.”

“And the time before that one?”

“Okay, that one was Mrs. Muddlefoot’s fault for showing me how to use the ‘heavy duty’ mode on the washing machine-”

“Don’t forget the incident-”

“Alright, alright. Sheesh,” Gosalyn interrupted, throwing her hands up in defeat. “You made your point. No need to rub it in.”

Jim’s chair screeched against panelled flooring as he got up from the table. He began collecting dishes, piling them up one after another in his grasp. 

“I’ll clean up. You kids make sure you have all of your belongings. Don’t want Launchpad to find something here and start asking questions.”

The kids all seemed to agree with this, as they pushed in their chairs and gathered in the living room while Jim scurried off to the kitchen. 

All of the kids except for Dewey, that is.

He followed closely behind and watched quietly as all of the dishes were dumped into the sink. Equipped with rubber gloves and a dirt scrubber, Jim was ready to clean up. But, to Dewey’s bafflement, he wasn’t cleaning any dishes. He was just… standing there. Peering at the curtain-shut window, right above the sink.

Looking distant. 

It was then when he decided to intervene. Dewey approached him from behind. “...Hey,” he said.

Jim jumped a little, but eased up the second he realized who was talking to him. “Hey, yourself.”

Dewey gazed from the stack of unwashed dishes to Jim’s jaded expression. “You okay, Mr. Starling?”

He sighed, proceeding to lather up the scrubber with a squirt of dish soap. 

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, kid,” he insisted, turning on the faucet. “Just thinking. It’s… nice to get things off my chest. And to finally meet some of Launchpad’s family.”

Dewey perked up at this. “It was nice meeting you too! You know, disregarding the whole… gas-gun thing and having your daughter tie me up,” he replied.

Jim shot him a dirty look. “That was a hundred percent your fault for going through my personal belongings.”

“You got me there.” Dewey observed in silence for a bit as Jim swabbed each plate, each piece of silverware, each glass. It wasn’t until he was stuck scraping a particularly rough stain when Dewey spoke up again. 

“Thanks for trusting us enough to tell us the truth. I… I was really hurt about Launchpad not telling me about you, before I knew everything. But now it makes sense.”

The dishware was lost to a sea of suds now. Seeing his distorted reflection in the soapy bubbles that overflowed the sink made Dewey weirdly contemplative. 

“You know, I’m his best friend,” he began, almost reluctantly. “But… I know you care a lot about him, too. And it seems like he feels the same way about you, from your story, at least. And… and the fact that he’s your sidekick and all. So if you were to become his best friend instead, I… I wouldn’t mind it.”

The last glass was stacked precariously on top of the clean pile. 

Jim swerved around and leaned down to Dewey’s level. It was the first time in the whole duration of the night that his age seemed to show; through his knowing, albeit tired, smile. 

“Ah, kid. He can have more than one best friend,” he gently reminded. “Have you met the guy? He practically befriends everybody!”

Dewey toyed with his shirt sleeve. “Heh, yeah,” he reasoned. “I guess that _is_ kind of Launchpad’s thing.”

“But... thank-you for your permission. I appreciate the sentiment.”

He peeled the gloves off his hands and set them out on the dish rack to dry. 

“Alright. Time to head out!”

Huddled together in the front yard, Jim stood at the back of the group of siblings and attempted to herd them like sheep into his Volkswagen. 

This action, however, was not met without its fair share of unnecessary comments from one of the triplets. 

“ _This_ is what you drive in to stop crime?” Huey asked bewilderingly. “Excuse me by saying this, Mr. Starling, but you have _got_ to get a heroic upgrade. Gizmoduck has that cybernetic wheel that can drive across any terrain, a pair of rockets outta his back-”

“Yes, yes, we all know that Gizmoduck is very impressive, thank-you for sharing,” he grumbled out, opening the door to the backseat. “And this is _not_ what I use to fight crime in. Are you kidding me? This is merely my decoy civilian vehicle! I drive a _cycle_ , just like that one over there. It’s probably still getting work done on it, though. Launchpad said he’d fix it up for me last week. I bet Gizmoduck doesn’t have his own motorcycle.”

Ignoring his tangent for the time being, Huey looked down at the hunk of armor he had been carrying around all night. 

“Speaking of Gizmoduck…” Huey raised the metal plate up. “He wanted you to sign this for him.”

Jim studied it for a second, before his attitude seemed to shift. “Oh… oh, yeah. I’ve heard he’s a fan. Well, who could blame the guy, really?”

Just like before, he pulled a permanent marker out from seemingly nowhere and readied his signature. 

“Should I make this out to _‘Fenton’_ or _‘Giz’-?_... oh-” Jim cursed under his breath but Dewey most definitely made out a word that would make his uncle weep.

The slip seemed to dawn on the others more gradually. Huey was absolutely glistening with sweat and looking nervously between Webby and Louie, attempting to gauge their reactions.

All of a sudden, Webby gasped. “Wait… Fenton is _Gizmoduck?_ ”

Louie didn’t look up from his phone. “Pft. Called it.”

“Who the hell is Fenton?”

 _“ Language,_ Gos,” Jim chided. 

Gosalyn waved him off. “Oh, don’t ‘language’ me. I just heard you swear like two seconds ago.”

Dewey thought Jim looked ready to retort when he merely scrunched his bill up into a sneer and got into the driver’s side, spouting a few unintelligible grunts. 

With each of the kids loaded into their respective seats, Jim put his key in the ignition before looking over his shoulder. 

“Now, kids- _Let’s_ … _get_ … buckled. Please. Car safety is no joke.”

 

* * *

 

 

The drive from St. Canard to Duckburg was mostly silent. 

Not too surprising, given the amount of information the kids were fed in the last couple of hours alone would be enough to exhaust anyone. From his occasional glance at the rearview mirror he saw most of the kids crammed in the backseat dozing off. Dewey was the only one who was still awake, peering sleepily out the car window. 

What _was_ surprising was the smooth drive to Duckburg. No traffic whatsoever, which was rare for such a bustling city. At least, Jim assumed it was rare.

It always sucked whenever he drove there. 

Lucky for Jim, he didn’t have to put in the address in his GPS to know where the McDuck manor was; Mr. McMoney-Bags certainly didn’t spare any expense to buy the biggest, most obnoxiously unavoidable mansion he had ever seen. 

The vehicle seemed so modest, so _insignificant_ approaching the luxurious ten-foot-tall fence that guarded McDuck manor. 

He rolled down his window and scrutinized what appeared to be a two-way intercom. 

He placed a tentative thumb on the ‘talk’ button. "Er, it's… I'm dropping the kids off," he stated, a bit too loudly. He heard soft utterances from the kids in the back, stirring awake. 

This seemed to be an appropriate enough response, as the gate creaked open and Jim drove past. 

The mansion, at least from the outside, was a lot to process. Sheer size aside, there was the fountain, the botanical garden, how everything seemed to be dripping in gold...

And that was just the front yard. 

Even knowing about Launchpad’s relationship with Scrooge McDuck from the beginning, it was still hard for Jim to picture him… being here. 

Gosalyn must have felt the same way. “Woah… Launchpad lives _here?_ ” 

He gave her a small nod, but as soon as he laid eyes on the closed garage, his mind dwelled on it further. 

Launchpad’s in _there,_ Jim thought. 

There was a part of him that wanted to venture in and say “hi”. There was another, more impatient side of him that wanted to burst through the garage door and demand he be shown the secret project Launchpad had been working on.

But, he had to remind himself: his appearance would ruin the birthday surprise. And Jim didn’t want that. Sincerely, he didn’t. Launchpad deserved that much.

Even if Jim really, really wanted to see his project. Or… see him.

Jim still wasn’t sure which one was the more compelling craving. 

As he drove around the curved brick path surrounding the front’s fountain, he noticed a well-built older woman standing outside, waiting. 

He parked to the closest thing to an entrance he saw (there were so many doors, it was hard to tell).

Jim twisted around in his seat. “Well, it was nice meeting you kids. See you at the surprise party, okay?”

“Bye, Webby and… friends,” Gosalyn was quick to add.

They were met with half-asleep concurrences and ‘thank-you’s as the children exited the car. The nephews gathered behind Webby as she approached the older woman hesitantly, hands situated behind her back and gaze tilted downward.

"Heya, Granny…" she greeted slowly.

"Hello, Webbigail." 

Louie failed to stifle a yawn. "Where's Uncle Donald?"

"Unconscious in the foyer," she answered promptly.

The siblings all exchanged uneasy glances. "Ah, jeez…"

Webby’s grandmother sighed, giving a brief glance of acknowledgement to Jim and Gos, still seated in the vehicle. 

"You children gave him quite the scare. We still have yet to discuss punishments, but…" Her fingers brushed through Webby’s hair affectionately, before settling on the top of her head. "I'm glad you all are back home safe.” 

Her stare once more became fixated on Jim. It was a little daunting, to say the least. 

“Now, get inside. The adults are going to have a little chat."

No arguments or retorts or clever come-backs. The kids swiftly followed her orders. She waited until the door was closed (and, perhaps when she couldn’t see any of them peeking out the window next to it) to finally advance towards them. 

She stuck her hand through the rolled down window. "Benita Beakley. I’m Mr. McDuck’s housekeeper."

"Uh… Starling. Jim," he greeted. 

They shook hands. Her grip being strong wasn’t a shock to Jim, given how muscular she was, but there was something more to her shake that could be felt under the surface. Somehow, it felt like she could have possibly killed a man with her bare hands at some point in her life. 

"Gosalyn Starling."

Surprised to hear his daughter join in on the introductions, he turned to see her with half of an unused plastic fork, relentlessly stabbing at the soft leather of the door’s interior. 

"Gos, cut that out," he spluttered, snatching the utensil out of her hand. 

Beakley ignored the interruption. "I suppose I should compensate you for taking time out of your schedule to drive them over here-"

"Oh, no, don't sweat it. They're sweet kids, if not a little… enthusiastic. Besides, I owe Launchpad more than enough favors at this point."

"Right… Launchpad." Beakley’s demeanor shifted from somewhat appreciative to… something else. Jim had difficulty reading her. 

"You know, the children relayed to me that you two were friends, yet I have never heard him mention knowing you before,” she remarked, unsmiling and unfaltering. “Peculiar, considering you portrayed the titular character in the only piece of media I ever hear him talk about."

The subtle implication made Jim break out in a sweat. "U-uh, _well-_ "

Beakley pressed forward. "And after a quick Waddle search, I found out that there's been a recent series of robberies in St. Canard that have been stopped by a man parading around as your TV character. Have you heard about that, Mr. Starling?"

"Wha- really! Wow! Nope, nope… didn't hear about that one-!" Jim hoped she didn’t notice his grip on the steering wheel tighten. 

Her stature grew more intimidating the more she spoke; her face inched closer and closer towards Jim’s as she leaned into the vehicle. 

"Some articles have even reported the man hopping rides with another man on a motorcycle, leaving scenes of crimes together. Did you know that Launchpad keeps a motorcycle in the mansion's garage?"

Jim knew it was over. He didn’t attempt to humor the housekeeper a third time. 

The moment she realized he had stopped trying to refute her, the pressured interrogating ceased. She pulled away, awarding him back his personal space. 

"I'm not one to pry into others' personal lives, Mr. Starling,” she admitted, her tone noticeably not as hard as before. “But I do make it my business to pry when I feel your high-risk practices puts the life of one of Mr. McDuck's most trusted employees in harm's way."

Before Jim could respond, an accusatory finger flew past him. 

"Alright, listen here, Miss Tea and Crumpets- I don't know who you think you are, but my dad is _great!_ " Gosalyn shouted out, pointing angrily at her. 

The absolute last thing Jim wanted right now was more confrontation. Or for Launchpad’s family to be even more put-off by them. 

"Gosalyn, that’s enough," he insisted, putting her arm down.

She snarled and fought against his restraint. "You Duckburg dolts would be lucky to have him clean up your streets the way he does ours! Launchpad knows that! Why don't you?"

" _Gosalyn!_ "

She must have known he was on the verge of grounding her for the rest of her adolescent life because the deathly tone of his voice was the only thing that stopped her squabbling. She retreated into a fetal position, looking out the window. 

Jim turned to Beakley apologetically. "I am _so_ sorry for her outburst. You know kids, right? Obviously. Hah, _ha…_ " His awkward laughter trailed off as soon as he saw Beakley, stone-faced. 

"I… I get dangerous. That's… er, I don't know if you've seen my show or not-"

"I have not," she answered coldly.

Jim had no choice but to continue on. "...But, that's sort of my specialty."

Beakley's face, having not changed at all during the whole duration of the conversation, was as hard to read as ever. She tilted her head, gazing past Jim to the passenger seat where Gosalyn stared daggers back at her.

Beakley looked back at Jim. "Right. Just see to it that Launchpad comes back here in one piece. I've grown quite fond of him."

"Y-yes, ma'am," he stuttered.

And with that, Beakley’s form receded past the front steps and through the door. Jim was still recovering mentally from the conversation when he rolled his window back up and shifted gears into ‘drive’.

Gosalyn unfurled from her position to stick out her tongue at the mansion, as if it was able to do it back to her. 

"The nerve of that lady," she angrily huffed. " _Mistah Stahling,_ yer so bloody dangerous, yer gonna get one a Mistah McDuck's employees killed- _Blegh!"_

"Okay, first off, that was a Scottish accent-"

"Huh? What's the difference?"

"Secondly, you know she was just looking out for Launchpad," Jim asserted. 

Gosalyn rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah,” she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm. “She's 'quite fond of him'. Gee whiz, gimme a break…"

When she was met with contemplative silence on her father’s end, her anger seemed to simmer down. 

"Don't let her get to you, Dad. Launchpad loves us a lot. And we love him! We'd never let anything bad happen to him! In fact, he'd probably be better off living with us than here-"

Jim’s heart hammered painfully at the suggestion. "Gosalyn, these people are his family. Don't be so selfish."

"We're his family, too."

Even though Launchpad had only officially been apart of their lives for about a month, he felt that same exact sentiment. Still, he had to be the adult in all of this and bury any sort of childish insecurity about the man’s role in their lives, as well as his role in the McDuck family.

"Launchpad is a grown man. He can make his own choices. If he wants to live here and commute to St. Canard whenever he wants to see us, that's up to him." Jim glared over to the passenger’s seat, rivaling his daughter’s own scowl. “Now this conversation is over, got it?”

Gosalyn shut her mouth, but the pout and the crossed arms said she wasn't happy about it.

As he drove through the open gate and the McDuck manor got gradually smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, Jim pondered a thing or two. 

The glitz and glamor of working for the richest duck in the world, bathing in the luxury of living in a mansion with a giant gold gate (rather than a dirty picket fence in desperate need of repair) and paid housekeepers and…

It was all a little too overwhelming for Jim, who, despite being a D-list actor in the 90’s, had only caught rare glimpses of that lifestyle. It was completely out of sight once Darkwing Duck had lost nearly all relevance within pop culture. 

And then there was Launchpad, at the center of it all, basking in it. 

Jim grappled with this. The idea that someone could be in a position like Launchpad’s and still want to spend time in a lackluster suburban neighborhood and help him wash the dishes or help his daughter with her homework was hard to wrap his mind around.

Launchpad McQuack was an anomaly of a man. And Jim was determined to figure him out. 


End file.
